"Your Bed"
From my book of personal essays, "Caution: Mermaid Crossing"
Valentine's Day Event 2018 published on Lit Up/Medium
I wanted to slide into that Restoration
Hardware bedding in your dark wood four poster bed and never get out. My head
would sink into that big pillow and I’d close my eyes waiting for you to crawl
in next to me. I want you to hold me for twenty-four hours or forever. I’m
broken in many nooks and crannies of my being, but when you wrap your long arms
and legs around me holding me with your head nuzzled in my neck, as if you
won’t let go - I’ll melt, and wounds will heal. You will seal up the gaping
wounds of trauma in your masculine style and I will feel safe; maybe safer than
I’ve ever felt.
The smooth duvet in a perfectly made bed
would be disrupted by our bodies. I hope the high thread count will never be
the same, as I hope you and I will never be the same. I’ll gaze at the manly
dark wood spiral of the four posters in all its New England coziness. It adds a
layer of protectiveness I yearn for. Alone and isolated during unimaginable
assault to my body, I’ve needed you. You don’t know because you did not see. I
wanted to enjoy time being something other than a patient. I’m good at
presenting myself as pretty and polished. But you saw that I was pale a time or
two. I want to be the desirable woman, not a sickly one. I learned long ago to
present well. Vanity has its virtues.
I hid my mangled non-reconstructed left
breast made ugly by the ravages of multiple surgeries and multiple staph
infections. I wore the bra that had a slit to slide in a manufactured filler
for women like me. I hated it, and never looked at myself. I resented the
pillow filler I wore. That’s me. Not every woman would hold vanity, but I care
and I’m single; a passionate romantic. I probably care too much. You never noticed
or understood it. You never saw me, really saw me; certainly not un-clothed. I
was always dressed nice with makeup perfectly applied on our outings.
Eventually, I told you while you put your hand over mine to console me. I knew
I had to take off the mask, but it was a lovely distraction. It surprised and
concerned you. You felt you could’ve been a support to me. I would’ve been too embarrassed.
I prefered showing up concealed and attractive.
But now I’m nearly physically healed, and I’m
reconstructed. They’re not perfect, and they’re not my beautiful breasts
discarded long ago in some hazardous waste bin. Will I ever feel whole again? My
natural breasts were full, sensual and sexual. Now, without any feeling, they
are just there to fill out a bra, having the superficial appearance of pretty
breasts. I’m far more prepared to be intimate, but unprepared for how different
it will be. Although older and past a
grueling ordeal, there’s that part of me that is the same attractive, sexual
woman. I know that love, and lying in your inviting bed with you next to me
could mend broken parts of my feminine being more than meditation or yoga ever
could. It’s my mermaid essence that still desires to be desired, deeply connect
with a lover; and believe that I’ll swim through the rest of my days with a
handsome kindred spirit.
©
Keep on swimming through life,
Keep on swimming through life,
Valerie
Another beautiful essay that evokes so many emotions! You really have a marvelous gift for expressing!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Tara. :)
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